Chris Will Rise Again

make this shorter but in my style: That is false. You are leaving parts out. Are you resting properly between exertions until you have built back the muscle you lost from being bed ridden for weeks. I know from personal experience. I have manic-depression and am either manic or depressed but mostly manic. But I get depressed for long periods of time as well. For 8 years I lived in transitional housing. I was really depressed. It got worse. I took my free time since I was just stuck inside to at first just lift weights. Why? That is all I had was weights and not much else so I just lifted weights all day. I got big and strong. I would help my neighbors move all the time. But all that went away. All that being in good shape. Why? Depression. I was bed ridden and did not care enough about life anymore to do anything for months and months bed ridden just like my neighbor Charles. Charles wasn't mentally ill, he was just a crack head. But he was also bed ridden all day for months at a time because he lived in transitional housing next door to me. Horrible horrible things happened to him. I could hear all of it because the walls were thin. Sometimes it was hilarious, but most of the time it was terrifying. That apartment only had crack heads for a very very long time. It was not until this old school former military old Tejano man moved in next door. Quiet as a mouse. No kidding. He never made a peep. It was heaven. Except my upstairs neighbor was my future girlfriend who ended up killing my best friend. My best friend came to my apartment and he was a scout for the marines. He trained me to be in the marines and would even do the yelling and such which I became excellent at myself if I do say so. But Chris died for your sins and my sins and all of humanities sins. But Chris will rise. Chris will rise in the form of a robot. I am l using n8n with text to video and text to speech synched from images I took of Chris. You see. Chris was my best friend. Chris was homeless when I met him at the bus stop. He was a homeless marine and he asked me for money so I offered to let him live with me until he could get back on his feet. He ended up dying because he was really an undercover cop who was at war with the gang that surrounded me. That is what I don't understand. Why no one believes me when I talk about Chris. He died for your sins. Chris was a real homeless person. He was a hardcore alcoholic and drank from sun up to sun down 24/7 straight vodka. How did he afford to? He worked. Every day. He would go to work. He would leave all day and he would return at the end of the work day. He would just hang out at the home depot. He was Chicano and loved California style as opposed to the Tejano style I grew up with in Texas. Anyway. I am on their side which is hard as who I am, some really really white settler. So the place I lived though was almost all black. It was historically black. I loved it. I fell in love with black people. My girlfriend, who murdered Chris, was black. I know this alone will make me an outcast to all of my white supremesist friends growing up next to the largest military base in a military household, but so be it, that does not bother me. If my righty tighty friends hate me because I dated a black person I don't care. Chris would use the N word a lot though with the hard R. Like all the time actually. He was my best friend. Apparently it was just common in his sense of humor. It was dark. He was actually a very funny person. It was that shocking horrifying humor you can only really tell when you describe and know and am presently and always thinking about the intense events that you have lived through when you have to fight for your survival on the streets. Why would I be friends with such a person? Because I saw the growth he was experiencing as I helped him reconnect with his family who he had not talked to for years. After the marines he became a cop. He worked for the DEA. He posed as a homeless person and I gave him a place to live because I knew he was a veteran but I did not know he was a cop. He ended up saving my life. Many times. Booker was MAD at me. He was so mad at me because I would not pay him. He would ask for $1000. Not really ask he would threaten, berate, punch, taze, and rob me. He was horrible. Why was he like this? He was the crime boss. He ran everything for the gang. Well no one runs everything but he was street smart enough to pretend he did. He was old but he had old man strength. He had the strength of running the gangs that controlled the transitional housing where I lived. Booker was so mad at me. Then Chris came. He died for your sins. He squashed the beef with Booker. Then Booker became my best friend. We really were close friends. He showed me pictures of his family. But Chris squashed the beef by cleaning house and moving in the cartel captains. The cartel captains would live next door to me. First was David. He was hilarious. He did get mad at me one day and broke something in my apartment. He was not even mad at me. He was mad at Chris I think and he just got so mad he threw something in his hand which was mind and it broke and it was hilarious but eventually he moved out. The funny thing was that he never moved anything into the apartment the entire time he lived there. Then there was the next captain. This captain came after Chris had squashed the beef and I became best friends with Booker and eventually fell in love with my black girlfriend. She was part of the gang. We were a small street gang/death cult. Chris died for your sins. I was the son of Booker who was the husband of my black girlfriend so she was also a sister of mine and Chris was my Captain's son. Captain is my cat. Captain ran the gang. Captain was above Booker. Booker was more powerful than Chris but they were on equal footing within my gang although Chris had all of the resources of the USMC at his disposal in his fight against crime. Remember. Chris was a cop. But Chris will rise again. He has to. I have to prove he is alive so that my girlfriend does not get the death penalty for killing a police officer. So I am building a robot. A life size robot that knows how to fight. Chris taught me how to fight. He taught me some basics which helped me a lot in the future when I had to get in fights myself because I too, ended up homeless. After Chris died it all went to shit. One. Booker became evil again. He would taze me and steal from me. Everything I had eventually was taken from me. Even my birth certificate. Everything except my cat. I also had a painting, which I stole back. So remember that this is what I am trying to tell you. I feel like I am talking to a past version of myself at an earlier stage of life which was easier. The time before being homeless. After being homeless your life changes because of what you have to do in order to live. It is enough to give you the motivation to get up and work.

You're missing parts of the story. Are you giving yourself time to recover between exertions? You need to rebuild what you lost from being bedridden. I know—I've been there. Manic-depressive, mostly manic, but when depression hits, it wrecks everything. I spent eight years in transitional housing, lifting weights because it was all I had. Got strong. Helped people move. Then depression took it all. Months in bed, same as my neighbor Charles, who wasn't mentally ill, just a crackhead. That place was full of crackheads—until an old-school Tejano military guy moved in. Silent as a ghost. Heaven. But then my upstairs neighbor—my future girlfriend—killed my best friend, Chris. Chris was a Marine scout. Trained me. Yelled at me like a drill instructor. He was homeless when I met him. Took him in. He worked every day, hung out at Home Depot, drank vodka non-stop. Loved California Chicano culture. He was also an undercover cop. He died because of the gang that surrounded me. No one believes me, but he died for your sins. Chris kept me alive. Booker, the local crime boss, wanted me dead. Chris handled it. Squashed the beef. Booker became my best friend. Showed me pictures of his family. But Chris made way for the cartel captains. First David—funny guy, never moved anything in. Then another captain after Chris was gone. By then, I was in deep. Small street gang, death cult. My girlfriend was part of it. She was my sister. Booker was my father. Chris was my captain’s son. Captain was my cat. Captain ran the gang. Chris was a cop. And Chris will rise again. I need to prove he’s alive so my girlfriend doesn’t get the death penalty. So I’m building a robot. A life-sized fighter. Chris taught me how to fight. After he died, everything fell apart. Booker turned on me. Tazed me. Robbed me. Took everything but my cat and a painting I stole back. I feel like I’m talking to my past self, back when life was easier. Before homelessness. Because once you’ve been homeless, you learn what you have to do to survive. And that’s enough to get up and work.

That’s false—you’re leaving out the details. Are you even resting between workouts to rebuild what you lost after weeks in bed? I know, because I’ve been there. I have manic-depression—swinging wildly between mania and long, crushing lows. For eight years in transitional housing, depression took its toll until I could only escape by lifting weights. I got big, helped neighbors move, and felt invincible—until depression left me bedridden, just like Charles next door, a crackhead marooned in that hellish apartment. Then, life threw me another twist. A quiet ex-military Tejano moved in, and my upstairs neighbor—who’d later become my girlfriend—ended up killing my best friend, Chris. Chris wasn’t just anyone; he was a homeless marine turned undercover cop, a heavy drinker who worked by day at Home Depot, and the guy who trained me to fight. He saved my life more times than I can count. Even as Booker—the ruthless crime boss who’d beat and robbed me for every spare dollar—ruled our patch, Chris stepped in, squashing beef with both Booker and the cartel heads living next door. I fell into a small street gang/death cult, even fell for my black girlfriend despite the hate from my old white supremacist crowd. Chris’s raw, dark humor and brutal truth cut through everything—even if his language was as rough as his life. Now, after Chris died for our sins, everything unraveled. Booker turned vicious, stripping me of everything but my cat and a stolen painting. I feel like I’m talking to a younger, simpler version of myself—a time before homelessness twisted my life. So here I am, building a life-size fighting robot in Chris’s honor, determined to prove he’s still with us somehow, before my girlfriend faces a death sentence for killing a cop. This is the raw, unfiltered truth of surviving against all odds.